I’m suddenly feeling down. The adrenalin rush has worn off and the couple other journos I was socializing with have all left. I imagine today’s Safi flight to Dubai was packed with Westerners fleeing temporarily directionless politics and the discipline of ramadan here. Not to mention the end of MSM interest in the story. But I can’t leave Afghanistan just yet. Have to push through the doldrums. Â There are more people to talk to and further intrigue to delve into.
It’s been a weird, intense couple of weeks. Richard Engel asking me why I was wearing Blu Blockers™ and if I was a “hipster.” Getting knocked by one of McChrystal’s machismo Italiano guards. Getting left behind at Kabul airport by Dostum’s entourage at night and taking a local taxi back to his house. One of Karzai’s presidential guards asking me, with a straight face, if I had an appointment at the palace to see the Taliban rocket that crashed through the kitchen. Seeing Gary Hart in the lobby of the Serena and then google imaging him on my laptop and holding my laptop next to his head for confirmation. Dr. A’s guy Ali asking us journos if we were ready to go to Gardez by road instead of helicopter and everyone jumping out of the HiLux and bailing. Realizing that Afghan paranoia and conspiracy theories are still child’s play compared to their ilk across the Durand Line. Being told by the kid at the front desk of the hotel that he saw me on state TV next the intel chief at the Intercon. No wonder this weekend was a weird let down…